


Masquerade

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: lands_of_magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The masks come off when Belle accompanies Rumple to a ball in a distant land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Dark Castle. Written for LJ's lands_of_magic Hallowe'en Mini-Bang for the prompt "masquerade ball".
> 
> * * *

"I don't understand why I have to go," Belle said plaintively.

She glanced down at her gown, shifted her hips slightly to make the full skirt twirl around her ankles in flashes of charcoal and burnt orange. The stays lacing her into her bodice made it difficult to get a full breath, and her hand fluttered at her chest. She knew that she'd spent most of her young adulthood fastened into elaborate gowns such as these, but the memories of attending glittering balls on her father's arm and greeting dignitaries from foreign lands seemed hazy and indistinct since she'd come to live with Rumplestiltskin. How quickly she'd grown used to dresses that didn't weigh her down with their yards of material and skirts that didn't trip her up as she walked. She'd forgotten how constricting ball gowns could be. And despite the shimmering jewels that dotted the gown here and there, the lush fabric and delicate beadwork, she missed her simple blue dress with its loose lacings and simple cut.

"I'd have thought you'd enjoy getting out of the Dark Castle for once, dearie," Rumplestiltskin answered.

"I would. I do!" she said quickly, lest he think she didn't appreciate his kindness in inviting her. To see the world again, even if just for a night. To talk to others and hear music, perhaps to dance! It was a gift beyond measure, and she had no right to complain, not even a little. Yet she still took a shallow breath, tried to tug unobtrusively at her bodice before giving it up as a lost cause, and gestured at herself helplessly instead. "It's just—"

"Come now, you didn't think you could attend one of Prince Michael's masquerade balls attired as a _maid_ , did you?"

"I suppose I didn't think of it one way or another," Belle admitted. But of course Rumplestiltskin was correct. She must look the part, and the gown he'd conjured for her in place of her little blue dress certainly made her look like a Lady. She twirled the mask between her fingers idly, watching the matching orange and black stripes spin. "What animal did you say my gown represents?" 

"A tiger," Rumplestiltskin replied. He moved his hand in a flourish, and Belle jerked when the mask disappeared from her hand only to reappear seconds later secured firmly on her face. "A fierce predator from a faraway land."

"I'm not sure that represents me quite... properly."

"You see yourself as a deer. A dove," Rumplestiltskin said. He moved quickly, one moment across the room and the next at her side, eliciting a gasp from her as his arm twined around her waist. The lace at his cuff tickled her cheek when he lifted a hand to draw one slender finger along her cheek. "But trust me, dearie," he said. "You have claws."

The smoke of his magic engulfed her before she could draw breath to respond, and her eyes closed involuntarily. When she opened them she was by herself on a wide terrace, the open doors to her left spilling light and music into the evening. She turned quickly in a circle, seeking Rumplestiltskin, but it appeared that she was truly alone. She could hear cicadas singing in the bushes, could smell the scent of an orange grove nearby. Somewhere below water lapped gently at the shores of a lake, and a warm breeze lifted the coiled curls from her shoulders. Its whisper in the trees was so different from the hearty gusts of icy winds that blew snow in thigh-high drifts around the Dark Castle that she shivered.

Each musical note drifting from the ballroom made her pulse jump, and the sound of voices raised in discussion and laughter urged her to scurry into the shadows at the edge of the balcony. Her heart beat against her ribcage, and she couldn't fool herself into believing that it was simply the magic that had undone her. Her time with Rumplestiltskin had isolated her in more ways than one.

Belle flinched when another burst of laughter wafted through the terrace doors, then squared her shoulders. She would not huddle in the dark like a frightened little mouse. Beyond the doorway lay merriment and music, conversation and warmth. She straightened her spine and stepped into the light.

Two hours later, she found herself less enamoured of dancing beneath glimmering candlelit chandeliers and more eager than she'd expected to return to the quiet of the Dark Castle's halls. It was not only the stiffness of a brocade gown that she'd forgotten during her time with Rumplestiltskin; it was also the exhaustion of an event such as this. Oh, she'd danced with several fine gentlemen and had sampled delicacies that melted on her tongue and put her homespun cooking to shame, but she had also learned that a Princess Isabelle was having a torrid affair with one of the knights of her husband's royal guard, that a young squire had gotten his lady love into the family way and thus ruined his chances for promotion forever, and that a bishop of the realm had been banished from the land after it was discovered that he had used the dark arts to seduce many a young maiden. She even heard a rumour about herself – that the Lady Belle, mistress of a distance land, had given herself as consort to the wicked sorcerer Rumplestiltskin in exchange for magic and power, and even now ruled with him in his castle of ice.

She'd excused herself after that whispered confidence, and had tried to retreat to a corner. But she'd barely been able to take a sip of her champagne before she'd been caught up by another of Prince Michael's knights and whisked away onto the dancefloor. She acquiesced as she'd been raised to do, and only hoped her smile didn't look like a grimace as she did her best to follow his droning recital of his attributes as they twirled through their paces. Her feet hurt. Her back was sore. Her restricting corset still refused to let her take a full breath. And more than anything, she was bored to tears.

She was ready, she realized with a start, to go home. And for the first time home didn't mean her father's castle by the sea.

"May I cut in?"

Belle turned with a genuine smile toward the familiar sound of Rumplestiltskin's voice, but was brought up short when her eyes met those of the speaker. His short blond hair was styled in the fashion that seemed to be popular in Prince Michael's realm, trimmed so short that she could see glimpses of his pale scalp when he shifted beneath the candlelight. Pale, serious blue eyes met hers as he held out his hand, and she blinked when his smooth fingers wrapped around her own. He pulled her effortlessly into the circle of his arms, and her feet remembered the nuances of the dance even as her mind whirled. This man, with his soft hands and bland smile, could not be more unlike Rumplestiltskin if he tried. Her mind was playing tricks on her, making her hear his voice. She was tired, that was all. Tired, and missing her comfortable clothes and the blazing fire in the Great Room and her books; missing curling her legs beneath her and listening to the soothing squeak of Rumplestiltskin's wheel.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my Lady?"

She had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze, her mouth suddenly dry. "Rum… Rumplestiltskin?"

If she'd had any doubt, his twittering laughter would have banished it. "Of course, dearie," he said. "You didn't think that I'd attend the ball without a costume of my own, did you?"

Belle blinked again, trying to find any hint of Rumplestiltskin in the man in her arms. The broad shoulder beneath her hand felt real enough, and there was nothing in those pale blue eyes of the sorcerer she knew. "Glamour," she said.

He tittered again. "And potent enough to convince many to reveal their secrets," he said. He leaned over her, one disconcerting blue eye dropping into a slow and showy wink. 

"You didn't need glamour to do that," Belle said with a sigh. "These people are more than willing to share all their nasty little secrets."

"These people? _Your_ people, Belle." He shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest, and it was disturbing not to see his brown curls dance about his shoulders when he moved. She'd grown used to those curls, and the eyes that seemed at first to be too big for his face, and skin that sparkled when the firelight hit it just right. "Not of Avonlea, no. But knights and ladies, those born to lead. Kings. Heroes," he said, the scornful upturn of his lip giving her the first hint of the Rumplestiltskin she knew. 

She refused to rise to the bait. "There are many types of heroes, Rumplestiltskin," she answered. "One might say that refusing to kill a thief and leave his unborn child fatherless was quite heroic."

"I missed!"

She smiled then. "Of course you did."

"And don't think you're going to turn me from this conversation, dearie. These are your people, Belle. Don't tell me that you prefer the 'tender mercies' of the Dark Castle to _this_!" His voice trilled, and his hand released hers for a moment so he could wave a finger in the air.

His gesture encompassed more than the room, but Belle's gaze moved from his odd blue eyes to the sea of dancers going through their prescribed paces below the shimmering chandeliers above; the servers moving silently through the throng; the tables filled to bursting with succulent treats. Everything shone brightly, from the ladies dresses to the gleaming silverware. It was lovely and enchanting and so very false.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I prefer conversation that _means_ something over idle gossip, and seeing my hard work accomplish something _real_ rather than flitting about like a… like a dove," Belle said. 

"I've been watching you, dearie. You would rather scrub my floors than dance with a dozen handsome knights?" He wrinkled his nose to indicate what he thought of the idea.

"I would rather be myself," she corrected. "Just Belle."

"But—"

"And handsome knights aren't all they're cracked up to be. Why, blond hair and a strong jaw are a dime a dozen. I much prefer spending time with someone who is an individual. Someone who talks _to_ me, not _at_ me. Someone who is comfortable in his own skin." She took a breath before lifting her chin so she could meet his strange blue eyes, searching them for the Rumplestiltskin she knew. "Even if that skin is mottled and scaly," she teased gently.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes grew wide. Somehow their dancing had led them out to the quiet balcony, and in the space of one twirl to the next his magic engulfed them. It was only when the warm breeze danced over her calves that she became aware that her ornate gown had been replaced by her simple shift, and she glanced at the loose ties on her bodice as she took a grateful breath. But better than being back in her own clothes was the realization that Rumplestiltskin had also banished the dreadful glamour in which he had cloaked himself. 

He was her Rumplestiltskin again.

She smiled in relief, reached out a hand to smooth down the lapel of his vest. And before she could stop herself – before she could remember that decorum dictated that a lady never act this way – she gave in to temptation and let her hand wander to the slice of skin revealed by the deep vee of his silk shirt. His skin was warm and pebbled beneath the pads of her fingers, and she drew in a soft breath when he sank into stillness; when he let her draw her fingers slowly upward over his clavicle to the column of his neck. His curls tickled the back of her hand. 

His hand flexed convulsively around her waist. It reminded Belle of the strength in him, despite his small stature. She could feel the press of his long nails through the thin fabric of her dress yet she had never felt more unafraid. She took a tiny half-step closer, near enough that she could feel the rapid beat of his heart against the her chest. It should have shocked her, having a man this close in her arms; close enough that he couldn't possibly miss the way her bosom rose and fell as her own breath quickened. But she didn't feel shocked. For the first time since he'd brought her to Prince Michael's castle, everything felt _right_.

Rumplestiltskin drew in a sharp breath, and the sound made her flick her gaze to his mouth. She'd always thought his rotten teeth would render his breath sour, but nothing but sweetness wafted over her. She curled her palm at the curve of his neck; felt his pulse race and his throat convulse beneath her thumb. She licked her lips before she tentatively raised her head to meet his eyes. Too large, perhaps, by conventional standards… but honey brown, soft, eyes that she could drown in. 

She braced herself on his shoulder to lift herself on tiptoe, and--

The scuffle of many feet behind her. The unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath. Someone shouted "Unhand her, devil!"; another yelled "Catch the beast!" Inside the ballroom, the music of the fiddlers faltered and then clanged to a screeching halt. The waves on the shore below seemed to pause and hover against the rocks. Even the cicadas were silent. 

And still she stood in the circle of Rumplestiltskin's arms, his lips but a breath from her own. All she had to do was close that infinitesimal gap.

Rumplestiltskin blinked, and in the space of one breath to the next his magic swirled around them. Belle had the vague impression of wind passing very close to her cheek, and only realized that she had felt the sweep of a blade passing through the air when she opened her eyes and found herself facing not an irate troop of Prince Michael's royal guard but rather the forboding foyer of the Dark Castle. Rumplestiltskin's arm was still a warm, heavy presence around her waist. His eyes still watched hers unblinkingly.

Then he shoved her back – not roughly but firmly – and she nearly stumbled when her feet hit something behind her. She turned to see the water still sloshing in the wooden bucket; the mop propped on the wall behind it. She looked back to Rumplestiltskin and felt her brow furrow.

"If cleaning floors is what you prefer over glittering balls, dearie, than that is what you shall have," Rumplestiltskin trilled. 

Belle shook her head, took a step toward him. "Rumple—"

He lifted a hand, shook one finger warningly. "Never let it be said that I do not heed your wishes," he said. "I shall expect this done by nightfall."

The deep red smoke of his magic surrounded him before Belle could do more than open her mouth, and she was left alone. Again. But unlike the party from which they'd fled, Rumplestiltskin's home was quiet at a tomb. No mice chittered in the walls. No clocks ticked through the hours. Not even the gusts of heavy winter wind permeated the thick stone walls and towering entry door. The sound of her own breath even seemed loud and overpowering. It almost felt like the first days that she had spent in the Dark Castle, when the walls seemed to press down on her like a living thing. It almost seemed like nothing had changed.

But _everything_ had changed.

Belle pressed a palm to her chest. She could still feel the heat of his body where it had lingered against her own. She could still smell the sweetness of his breath, and feel the ridges of his rutted skin against the pads of her fingers. She could still see the wide, startled look in his fascinating eyes when she rose on tiptoe to close the distance between them.

She took a shaking breath, glanced over her shoulder at the waiting bucket. Everything had changed, but she still had no idea how to proceed. She had never thought to talk to her nanny about what to do should she find herself falling in love with a centuries old dark sorcerer. Belle smiled amusedly to herself at the thought of what Nanny Rose would have said about _that_ as she bent to pick up the bucket and carry it into the Great Room. Perhaps it's best that she had been left to sort through all of this on her own.

Belle set the bucket near Rumplestiltskin's spinning wheel in the corner before starting back across the floor to retrieve the mop. She stopped halfway across the room, hands on her hips as she surveyed the Great Room with a fresh eye. The room was perhaps not as big as the ballroom in which Prince Michael had held his party, but it was certainly as grand. All it needed was some freshening up. 

She had discovered this evening that, to her surprise, she did not miss much of her old life. Oh, she missed her father, but not with the ache in her heart that had accompanied her first weeks in the Dark Castle. She certainly did not miss the political machinations of his court, or the fake smiles that she had to plaster onto her face when Gaston or one of the other knights bored her to tears with their stories. She did not miss biting her tongue at the risk of offending someone with her odd sensibilities. She did not miss being the Lady Belle.

But she did miss the light. She wanted to feel the sunlight on her face, to inhale the scent of fresh flowers, even to watch dust motes dance in the beam from the window pane. She wanted to sit quietly and watch the play of light on straw when it magically turned to gold.

Yes, she missed the light. Perhaps later, when the weather cleared, she would find a ladder and open the drapes.


End file.
